


Black Is The Color

by HalfwayToHell



Series: Wayward Sons [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bikers, Dark Winchesters, Hand Jobs, M/M, Possessive Dean Winchester, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 06:14:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6644575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfwayToHell/pseuds/HalfwayToHell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester has killed many men in his life: some who deserved it and some who did not. But Dean could never see right or wrong as long as his baby brother was involved. And as far as he was concerned, any man who leered at Sam got what was coming to them: Dean's blade splitting open their throat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Is The Color

**Author's Note:**

> Playlist:
> 
> Matthew Mayfield- Track You Down  
> Shawn James- The Wanderer  
> Fantastic Negrito- An Honest Man  
> Ethel and the Chordtones ft. Ryan Levine- Trouble

                                                         

* * *

  

There were two things Dean Winchester remembered from that night.

 

The first thing he could remember was the heat.

 

The scalding burn of it against his young flesh and the smoke that filled his healthy lungs and the sting of the tears in his eyes when the smog reached his face.

 

The second thing he could remember was the small bundle.

 

The weight of his baby brother in his arms when he ran down the stairs and the heavy but light sensation in his little legs when he burst through the front door of the house.

 

Standing on the front lawn, his bare feet cold in the grass, his chest rising and falling like a fledgling bird and his eyes wide and bright with fear as he had stared up at the place he used to call home. He had lost everything that night. His mother, his home, his father.

 

The only thing that mattered--the only thing that would ever matter--is his little brother: Sammy. His brother was his home and his responsibility and he was constantly reminded of that every day.

 

Even now as the heat of the morning sun soaked into his leather jacket and the rush of the wind through his short, sandy hair and the feel of the vibration of the bike between his legs and the black top beneath Baby’s tires--he was certain of one thing as he glanced over to his left to the boy on the Harley beside him, his arms spread out as if he’d suddenly take flight and the dimples in his cheeks when the boy smiled at him, a mischievously carefree glint in his kaleidoscope eyes, Dean was certain of one thing:

 

Sammy would always be his responsibility.  

 

“Put your hands back on those bars before your ass hits the pavement!” Dean shouted over the rumbling of the bikes, his voice carrying on the wind. His heart fluttered in his chest cavity at the thought of Sam’s bike tire suddenly catching on a loose pebble and his body tumbling across the blacktop.

 

Sam rolled his eyes, the younger man’s irritation clear, but he obeyed his older brother as his gloved hands grabbed back onto the handlebars and his shit-eating grin was still plastered on his lips. “Oh c’mon Dean! Lighten up!”

 

“I’ll lighten up when you quit givin’ me heart palpitations!” Dean hollered back.

 

His younger brother laughed then, tossing his head back. When Sam sobered up enough, he suddenly gunned it and he was like a chrome bullet as he shot forward, gaining speed with every passing millisecond. _Catch me if you can_ , is what his little brother was wordlessly taunting, egging him on and Dean couldn’t deny it--he loved the pursuit, but he relished in the eventual capture.

 

The eldest Winchester chased the broad, leather back of the younger one. Wind ripped through his brother’s clothes, his vest billowing like a flag behind him. Sam gave an excited _whoop_ as Dean hunted him down the straight strip of highway blacktop, the world blurring around them.

 

The thirty mile strip between the Bunker and Harvelle’s Roadhouse was as familiar to the Winchester boys as they were to each other--knowing every inch, every curve, every flaw. They could ride it blindfolded if they wanted and still arrive breathing.

 

Dean cut Baby’s engine, climbing off the oil-slick-black 1967 Harley Davidson Electra Glide and propping the vintage bike up on its kickstand. He watched as Sam clambered off of his own silver Harley Chopper, his limbs too ridiculously long for a normal sized motorcycle. Dean never saw the appeal in the newer Davidson models like his little brother, but he supposed he hadn’t the right to bitch about it. As long as Sam had a bike to ride along beside him, Dean was far more than content.

 

The younger Winchester barely had removed his helmet--which his brother insisted he wear, even though Sam was a grown twenty-five year old--before the eldest Winchester’s hand clamped around the back of his neck, hauling him down to his eye level.  

 

“Gotcha Sammy,” Dean breathed against the curve of his little brother’s throat, his fingers twisting in the chestnut strands as he pulled Sam’s head back to give him access to his neck and his other hand gripped at the arch of the younger Winchester’s hip.

 

Sam’s knees bent and his body curved toward his older brother’s, his hands roaming Dean’s chest. There was still a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, De,” murmured Sam, his fingers fisting in his brother’s shirt.

 

The younger Winchester melted like warm molasses beneath Dean’s mouth as his lips ran against Sam’s soft flesh, his teeth gliding underneath his jawline. His own mouth was slack--the smirk gone--and his chest heaved, a breathy whimper falling from his lips as Dean’s teeth found the sensitive span of flesh underneath his jawbone close to his ear. His body curved, molding perfectly against the older Winchester’s and Dean’s hands slid around Sam’s lower waist, resting on the curve of his spine, bracing him up against his brother.

 

The heated fuzz of his bliss was broken when Sam felt someone watching them--or rather, watching _him_. He slowly turned his head in the direction of the eyes. A group of five men came walking up the stretch between the dirt road and Harvelle’s Roadhouse steps. Only one of the men in particular was watching Sam, his gaze unwavering as his eyes slid over his body, inspecting every inch of Sam’s tall, lean frame.

 

“De,” Sam whispered against his brother’s ear, one of his hands gliding down the front of his brother’s chest. His hand cupped the front of his brother’s jeans, palming at Dean’s slowly hardening cock. “I think we have ourselves a watcher.”

 

A territorial growl came from the back of Dean’s throat and his hips languidly ground into his little brother’s palm, his teeth nipping hard at Sam’s flesh, causing a high pitched gasp to pull from the younger Winchester and the sound his brother made caused his own cock to twitch.

 

“Then let’s give ‘em a show, Sammy.”    

 

Sam was more than willing--in fact his body was burning with the need to--but their plans were cut short when Ash called to them from the front steps of the Roadhouse.

 

“Sam! Dean! Bobby’s been lookin’ for you two. Hurry up will ya?”

 

Reluctantly, the younger Winchester started to pull back from his brother, but Dean still held him flush against him. “We’ll finish this later,” His brother promised and his body shivered in anticipation.

 

“I can’t wait.”

 

The warm smell of roasted peanuts greeted the Winchester brothers as they walked through the doors of Harvelle’s Roadhouse. Other scents chased after them as well: the nicotine from the cigarette smoke, the crisp smell of leather, and the occasional woodsy cologne. The lights were dimmed, save for the lamps that hung above the pool tables in the far back corner of the bar.

 

They maneuvered their way through the crowded tables. Dean walked beside Sam, their hips brushing together as they walked and one of his hands slipped inside of the back pocket of his brother’s tight jeans, his hand possessively against Sam’s ass.

 

No one said a word. It was expected though. Most avoided their eyes when they came past their tables, instead finding themselves suddenly interested in the beers in their hands or keeping their hands busy by cracking open peanuts from the buckets in the center of their tables.

 

The Winchesters were legends in Lawrence, Kansas. They were whispered about, stories passed around from town to town, bar to bar, biker gang to biker gang--almost everyone knew who they were outside of Lawrence, but everyone inside of Lawrence knew them just by the rumbling of their motorcycles in the distance.

 

Kind words were never spoken about the Winchesters.

 

It was always in hushed, frightened whispers. It was the kind of talk that people would glance over their shoulders during to be sure that one of the brothers were not suddenly standing behind them with a knife, ready to slit their throats or the kind that people felt they needed to go to the next Sunday mass to wash themselves clean of the sin that radiated off the two boys.

 

Even if someone wasn’t the praying type, they’d pray they would never have to be in the same room as the Winchester brothers, especially them together. They fueled each other, like gasoline to an already raging fire--Sam as the fuel and Dean as the flame.

 

And if the eldest Winchester ever caught someone even glancing in his little brother’s direction...well. That was a whole other kind of storm.

 

They took respect but gave none: that was the Winchester way and it was something people held in high regard like the King James version of the Holy Bible, as if it were one of the Ten Commandments.

 

A  few minutes passed before the Winchesters found themselves in the back room of Harvelle’s Roadhouse, Ash shutting the thick wooden door behind them. Sitting at the head of the long oak table, was Bobby Singer.

 

Once Vice President of the Wayward Sons, Bobby was given the Presidential patch after John Winchester left six years ago--without so much as a word to either of his sons. They had woken up that morning to find their father’s 1946 Panhead missing and Uncle Bobby sewing the patch onto his vest.

 

They never questioned where their father went because they knew. John was searching for the man who killed Mary Winchester. Their mother died in a house fire when Sam was only a  baby. Police records state it was a tragedy, a fire caused by a faulty electrical wire. John knew better.

 

She was killed by a President of a rival rogue gang, intel given to their father six months before he packed up and left. It was a gang that had tainted history with the Wayward Sons back when it was first founded by Henry Winchester: the Hounds of Hell. Because they were a rogue gang and they did not have territories or districts, they were elusive. They were not rooted to any state or county lines.

 

This was all either of the Winchester boys knew. It was all the information their father and Uncle Bobby was willing to give them, and it was only to sate their curiosity, but it did not lay their anger and hurt to dormancy as Bobby had wanted. It only made the fire inside of them burn, slowly building and filling them up.   

 

“There you idjits are,” Bobby said without looking up from the papers in front of him. “I was ‘bout ready t’ send Ellen after you.”

 

“We got a little caught up is all,” replied Dean with his smoother than honey smile, pulling up a chair at the far end of the table, sitting across the way from the older man.

 

Bobby paused for a moment to glance up, his wise blue eyes meeting Sam’s, searching for confirmation.

 

“Oh, c’mon Uncle Bobby.” Dean folded his arms across his chest, giving a false portrayal of hurt. “Don’t you trust me.”

 

“No,” Bobby answered with a tone as blunt at the opposite end of a butter knife and Sam covered his mouth to hide the snicker as Dean frowned. “You boys are more of a handful now than you were as children. At least when you were bein’ potty trained I didn’t have t’ worry about you two stirrin’ up trouble,” Bobby paused then. “Well. As much trouble as two toddlers could get into.”

 

“Dean is telling the truth,” Sam began as he ran a hand up the older Winchester’s spine and across his back as he took a seat beside his brother. The same hand trailed down his brother’s arm, slowly moving lower. “We got caught up.”

 

Bobby seemed hardly satisfied by the brothers’ answers, but he did not press it further.

 

Over the span of ten minutes, each of the seats at the table were filled by other members of the Wayward Sons. It was only then that Bobby started the annual monthly meeting. He spoke of the usual: political business, financial quotas, any information that Bobby felt the club needed to know.

 

It bored Sam, but it bored his brother even more.

 

The younger Winchester shifted his chair closer to his brother’s, their knees touching. People were used to the closeness that the brothers shared, but regardless of how many times any of the members had seen their intimate notions, it still caused a vibration of discomfort to come from them. It was one of the other reasons that members of their club avoided casting a glance in the Winchesters’ direction when their bodies were pressed together in ways that brothers should not.

 

As Bobby droned on, Sam’s hand slipped up his brother’s thigh, slow and sensual. Dean shifted his arm then, covering his younger brother’s. The younger Winchester’s fingers dipped between his brother’s thighs, palming at his crotch. Dean’s free hand reached across, grabbing at Sam’s wrist in warning, as if telling him _not here, Sammy_. But Dean always gave in. Always gave his little brother what he wanted--and right now was no different.

 

He released Sam’s wrist and returned his free hand to the top of the table, his jacket blocking anyone’s vision on his right side. It was not that Dean felt that anyone would look, because even if they did, they wouldn’t dare say a word for fear that he would cut their tongue out, but it was a small precaution.

 

As the younger Winchester continued to palm at Dean’s hardening cock, he slumped a little in his seat. His lips parted slightly and barely audible shaking exhales came from his mouth. Dean reached over with his other hand, grabbing one of Sam’s long legs and draped it across his left leg, his younger brother nearly in his lap. The eldest Winchester’s hand rested on his younger brother’s inner thigh, his fingers digging into his soft flesh through his jeans.

 

“Sammy.”

 

It was such a soft whisper, that Sam could hardly hear it sitting as close as he was to his big brother, but he had heard it and knew by the edge in his brother’s voice that Dean wanted-- _needed_ him to touch him. And not through denim.

  
As quietly as he could manage, Sam undid the button on his brother’s faded jeans and slid the zipper down with his thumbnail before he reached inside. Long, slender fingers gripped around heated flesh, Dean’s cock twitching at the skin on skin contact. Sam ran his thumb against the swollen head of his big brother’s cock, the slick of precum on the pad of his thumb.

 

Sam started to slowly stroke Dean, his hand exploring his brother’s cock. Between the precum and the sweat coating his palm, the youngest Winchester was able to glide his hand fairly easily up and down, his flesh only catching on some parts of his brother’s cock, but Dean didn’t seem to mind. His brother chased pain with pleasure.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam could see his big brother’s Adam’s Apple twitch and he had to repress the urge to lean in, to run his tongue against the salty sweat that was collecting on the hollow of his brother’s throat. Quiet puffs of air fell from the eldest Winchester’s lips as Sam’s strokes varied in speed and pressure, his wrist twisting with each upstroke and his thumb would swipe against the slit of his brother’s cock every other stroke.

 

He could tell that his brother was fighting the urge to thrust up into his hand in the way the muscles in his leg tensed beneath his own, stilling his hips. Sam could feel Dean falling apart beside him, feel his brother’s nails dig into his inner thigh and feel his chest heave beside him, his breaths coming quicker but still ever so quiet.

 

Sam had to admit that he was a bit jealous at how impossibly quiet his big brother could be. He was the complete opposite--all needy whimpers and gasps and keening moans and begging his brother to fuck him, because blow jobs or hand jobs were never enough for Sam. He always wanted his brother inside of him. Always wanted Dean to take him, to use him anyway he sees fit.

 

And it was those reasons alone that he could not fathom his brother’s unwavering silence when he came, hot come spilling over his hand, leaking between his fingers. The only sound that followed, was the sigh that passed through Dean’s lips, content.  

 

Without missing a beat, the eldest Winchester reached into the pocket of his leather jacket, removing a handkerchief. He worked to clean his little brother’s hand, some of the come drying between the grooves of Sam’s fingers before he cleaned himself off. Once that was finished, Dean quickly readjusted himself, buttoning and zipping up his pants before he placed the handkerchief back into the jacket’s pocket.

 

He squeezed Sam’s thigh once more in a _thank you_ , but the way his fingers left pressure on his flesh left Sam to believe that Dean wasn’t finished with him and that thought alone caused a hot coil of arousal to tighten in his abdomen.

 

† † † † †

 

The alcohol burned as it traveled down Sam’s throat, warming his insides. He coughed a moment later, the potency of the whiskey causing a tickle in his throat and his cheeks were flushed pink from it.

 

“Holy _shit_ ,” Sam coughed again, covering his mouth. “Is that _Unleaded?_ It tastes like gasoline.”

 

“Just your garden variety Jack Daniels, darlin’,” Ellen Harvelle said, wiping her rag across the bar. A smile playing on her lips. “Thought you said your brother could handle his alcohol?”

 

Dean tipped his head back, swallowing his own shot of whiskey. He slammed the shot glass onto the bar’s island, a grimace pulling at his mouth and he shivered as the warmth from the alcohol spread through him. Dean gave her a lazy grin.

 

“Sammy usually drinks beer. Or coffee. Vodka on occasion.” He tapped the rim of the glass and Ellen poured the eldest Winchester another shot. He took the shot before he said, “Sammy isn’t much of a whiskey drinker.”

 

Ellen offered Sam another shot and he quickly shook his head, covering the top of his glass and it only made her smile widen. Then suddenly she frowned, annoyance pinched between her eyes as she stared at something behind the boys. “I noticed. If you boys need anything, ask my Jo. She’ll be more than happy to help. Meanwhile, it looks like I got some asses to kick.”

 

The Winchesters nodded in unison as Ellen stepped away from behind the island, her boots clicking against the hardwood as she walked across the Roadhouse. They both smirked when they heard Ellen threatening someone from behind, but they did not bother to turn around to see who’s ass she was reaming.

  
“I have to give her some credit, Dean. She’s the only person other than Uncle Bobby who is brave enough to talk to us,” Sam noted.

 

“She’s got some balls on her. I’ll give her that,” agreed Dean and he frowned peevishly at his empty glass. He swiveled around in his bar stool, pine green eyes searching.

 

When he caught sight of Ellen’s daughter, he whistled for her. She looked up from the table she had been cleaning, like a hound being called by its master. Wiping her hands on the apron around her slender waist, she quickly sashayed over, the black tank top she wore riding up a little on her midriff, flashing pale flesh.

 

“Whiskey,” was all Dean said and she wordlessly grabbed the Jack Daniels bottle from underneath the counter, pouring him a shot.

 

Sam watched her silently, his kaleidoscope eyes narrowing thoughtfully. She was shy, that much he could see as she nervously tucked a piece of her wheat-blonde hair back behind her ear, her thick eyelashes downcast, avoiding Dean’s own unwavering stare. But there was more than that.

  
It only took Sam a moment more to realize that Jo was interested in his brother. He could see it in the way she leaned against the bar’s island, exposing the crease of her breasts hidden beneath her thin tank top. And when she tilted her head, all of her blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders, exposing the long curve of her pale throat.

 

Someone called for Jo and there was an uncertainty in her dark doe-eyes, casting glances at Dean then at the person who had summoned for her and then back at Dean once more. The eldest Winchester smiled then, causing a fair pink to touch her cheeks.

 

“Go ahead, darlin’. Oh and leave the bottle, will you, sweetheart?” Dean winked at her before she quickly scuttled off.  

 

“She’s attractive,” Sam nonchalantly noted after a few moments. “In the Disney princess kind of way.”

 

“Didn’t notice,” replied Dean, which Sam knew to be a lie, but it did not bother him.

 

After all, Sam was the only one who crawled between the bedsheets with his brother. So he felt no reason to be threatened by the Harvelle girl, or any woman for that matter. The youngest Winchester did not harbor jealousy, although his brother was a stark different entity on that matter.

 

Sam felt warmth spread on the back of his neck and he glanced over his shoulder, catching a pair of startling blue eyes--the same ones that could not keep off of him outside. The man was inspecting him again, leaning a hip against the pool table and his fingers gripped tightly onto the pool stick. His golden brown hair shined underneath the lamp above the velvet table and the dark glint in his eye was something Sam knew all too well.

 

It was the same glint that men at gas stations gave him when he was fueling up his motorcycle, the same one he was given passing high school seniors in the hallway as a baby-faced freshman, the same one that caused men to leer at him as he leaned against a brick wall outside of a bar, a lit cigarette balanced between his fingers and his mouth slightly parted to allow gray, cherry-flavored smoke to slither between his lips.

 

It was the very same look that caused his brother to kill.

 

Sam bit his lower lip at the thought of the man’s blood splattered across the floor and the red of it staining his brother’s knuckles and quenching Dean’s thirsty blade.

 

The man mistook the twisted glimmer in Sam’s eyes as the very same dark desire he had in his own as he straightened his spine, expecting the younger Winchester to come over. And he saw no reason to deny the man’s last wish.

 

Without a word to his older brother, Sam slipped off of the bar stool. He sauntered over to the man, removing the leather gloves from his hands and slid them into the pockets of his vest. The other four men that he had been with all stiffened in unison when they caught sight of the youngest Winchester as they glanced up from their game of pool.

  
It was made quite apparent, that the one who couldn’t keep his eyes off of Sam was not from around Lawrence, else if he had been, he would not have looked--would not have glanced--in his direction, especially in his big brother’s presence. The fact that the man had no inkling clue of the infernal hell he was about to get himself into caused a smirk to curl at the corner of Sam’s mouth, a warmth spreading through his body.

 

“Hey,” Sam greeted as he slid up next to the man, leaning his hip against the edge of the table and he looked down at the man through his thick eyelashes, settled in his personal space. Sam had not left much room between him and the other, because he wanted to see the man squirm from his close presence.

 

The youngest Winchester got what he wanted when the man shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, his eyes darting away from Sam then over to his brother who must have still been seated at the island, because there was no look in the man’s eyes that betrayed that his brother was making his way over.

 

Not yet, anyway.

 

There seemed to be a sudden skittishness then, as if the man was a frightened animal, body tense and ready to spring away at a moment’s notice. The man could dish out the leers and suggestive body language, but it seemed he could not handle the response.

 

Sam flicked his tongue out across his bottom lip, as if he could taste the man’s unsurety and it was sweet. “What’s your name?”

 

The man turned his blue eyes at Sam once more. “Brady.”

 

“Sam.” The younger Winchester slid his eyes toward the four other men who looked on with wide, frightened eyes. He shifted his gaze back to Brady. “Not from around here, are you?”

 

“No,” Brady replied with a nervous twitch of his Adam’s Apple. “Visiting family for Spring Break.”

There was a minor spark of interest in Sam’s eyes, but it was only for show. “College student?”

 

Brady gave a stiff nod. “Stanford.”

 

Sam tilted his head, his hair falling into his kaleidoscope gaze. “Small world. Planned to go to Stanford myself back in high school, but as you can see,” He motioned down his body, watching as a bead of sweat bloomed on Brady’s forehead as his eyes followed the notion of his hand. “That was not the universe’s choice.”

 

“A-and why’s that?”

 

Sam smiled. “I’m going to let you in on a little secret, Brady.” He leaned in then and watched out of the corner of his eye as the man’s entire body went rigid at his closeness. The younger Winchester’s lips barely brushed against Brady’s ear as he said, “I wasn’t meant for the college life. Rules never did sit well with me. I guess you could say that I’m a bad boy. Always have been.”

  
He could hear the man give a shaking exhale and Sam slowly leaned away from him, the fox-like grin on his lips accompanied by the vixen glimmer in his eyes.

Brady’s body seemed to relax, but it was fleeting as his eyes widened, pupils dilating in fear.

 

Sam could feel his brother’s presence before he felt a hand grip bruise-hard on his hip while another hand came up. Deadly, calloused fingertips drag against his neck and he tilted his head as Dean brushed chestnut strands away from the side of his neck. The eldest Winchester ran his lips against the exposed thick muscle, scraping his teeth along the vein there.

 

“Is this guy givin’ you problems, little brother?” Dean asked, the possessive growl in his throat causing a shiver to trickle down Sam’s spine.

 

“No, De. Just talking,” replied Sam, his voice distant as he mulled an idea over. “Mind if we join you in a game?” He flicked his eyes at the pool table.

 

“Uh, no. No. Not at all,” Brady stuttered and for once, he avoided looking in Sam’s direction with Dean so close.

 

His shyness did not last long, however.

 

During the game, Sam could feel Brady’s wandering eyes on him each time he leaned over the table with a pool stick in hand, taking his turn. Although Sam was not looking at him, he knew that the other man’s eyes followed the perfect dip in his spine, leading to the curve of his ass, his mind plagued with dark desires.

 

“Have you ever killed a man, Brady?” Dean suddenly asked him then, inspecting the blue-chalked tip of his pool stick.

 

The abruptness of the question caught the man off guard and he looked at the eldest Winchester with wide eyes. “N-no.”

 

A dangerous stillness came over Dean’s facial features. “I have.”

 

“W-what did he do?”

 

Dean’s razor-sharp pine gaze slid over to Brady, locking. “Starin’ at my baby brother longer than I liked.”

 

The eldest Winchester’s hand lashed out--quick as a viper--and his fingers closed around the back of Brady’s neck. He slammed the man face first into the table as if he weighed nothing, bright red blood spraying across the pool table, tainting the pure green velvet.

* * *

 

                                                                           


End file.
